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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414954">Slouching Towards Jerusalem</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/humblystark/pseuds/humblystark'>humblystark</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Enemies to Lovers, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Immortality, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Nicky is a Sad Catholic, Slow Burn, Yusuf Gets Emotional About Books, poetry but make it horny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:16:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/humblystark/pseuds/humblystark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicolò di Genova meet on the battle plains outside Jerusalem during the First Crusade. What follows is a romance for the ages.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>325</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Blood-Dimmed Tide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The July sun rises over the walls of Jerusalem, painting them a rosy pink, then a deep crimson. It glistens off the dried blood in the sand at Yusuf's feet and reveals streaks of red over his tunic that had appeared black under moonlight.</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>The Genoese ships arrived three weeks earlier carrying fresh troops and siege supplies. Yusuf's stomach sank at the sight of their masts bobbing in the harbor. Jerusalem was not his city. He had never marveled at its skyline or tasted its food or drank with its people until two months ago. Yet he had vowed to protect its walls and all those who sought refuge inside. The Crusaders had already decimated Antioch. If Jerusalem fell, what city in the land would be safe?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The siege began last night near the northern wall. Yusuf and his compatriots streamed out on horseback, adrenaline high and God on their side, prepared to rain down judgement on the Crusaders' armies. That's when he saw him. The man God sent to him night after night in dreams. His quarry. His enemy. His destiny.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He'd lost count of how many times he'd spilled his insides onto the rocky soil. Run him clean through with his sword. Wrapped his hands around his throat and squeezed until he lay limp beneath him. He'd lost count of how many times he had suffered the same fate only to rise again and pick up his sword and run at him again.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They are alone now. The distant sounds of war, the neighing of horses and the creaking of catapults, carries faintly on the wind toward them.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Several paces away, the knight staggers again to his feet. His face is covered in dust and blood. His eyes squint against the dawn light. Yusuf feels as thought he himself is on the verge of collapse, but he nevertheless plants his feet and raises his sword. Did Yusuf mistake his dream for a blessing when it was really a curse? Were they fated to go round and round in this bloody dance until God had mercy on both their souls? Were they damned?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The knight looks up, and Yusuf can see the anger and righteous passion in his expression drain away, replaced by exhaustion and grim defeat. The knight opens his hand and his blade falls to the ground. He looks to the heavens and crosses himself.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then he collapses.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Yusuf scrambles over to a fallen soldier to retrieve his water skin, as though the many hours he had just spent trying to take the knight's life were a distant memory. He kneels beside him and pours water between his parched lips. The knight whispers something he can't understand, and he feels a hand clutching his. He knows their fight is over. They experienced something strange and miraculous this night. Something no one will believe. Something that frightens him like nothing else ever has.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Yusuf looks to the city walls. The Crusaders will breach soon. Jerusalem is lost. He wants no part of what is to follow.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He looks down at the knight and is surprised to see his own grief reflected back at him. Yusuf's jaw steels. He knows what they must do. He hoists the knight to his feet and puts the sword back in his hand. A show of faith. The knight doesn't take his eyes off him, wary and curious by equal measures.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Stay, stay," he says in his own tongue, gesturing with his hands. He points to a riderless horse some yards away and approaches slowly until he's close enough to take the reins. Yusuf mounts the saddle and extends his hand toward the knight expectantly. The knight looks to the battle behind them, to the barren horizon to the west, then to Yusuf's face. He seems uncertain. Yusuf is patient.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Finally, the knight once more looks to the heavens and crosses himself. He sheathes his sword, takes Yusuf's hand, and pulls himself into the saddle. Yusuf secures his arm tightly around him, and, with the tap of his heels, they gallop into the desert together.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! I have plans for this to be a multi-chapter fic set during the early years of their relationship. I don't have a publishing schedule yet, but check back weekly or so.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Somewhere in the Sands of the Desert</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a common language is discovered and compassion finds its limits.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicolò is dehydrated, on the brink of exhaustion, and — in all likelihood — half dead. Then again, death seems to be a moving target these days.</p>
<p>They had been riding hard for half an hour. Between the scorching sun and weariness from battle, the only thing keeping him upright in the saddle was the soldier's arm around him. He would be more concerned about having deserted his brothers-in-arms to ride off with the enemy if it weren't for the fact that he should be dead. They should <em>both</em> be dead.</p>
<p>He believed it was a miracle the first time he woke. God had saved him. Brought him back to vanquish his foe. Then his foe got up too. Surely, if God had deemed him worthy of victory, this man would have stayed dead? Surely, God wouldn't force him to kill and be killed again and again and again to prove his worthiness? Unless the opposite were true. Maybe he was damned. Maybe this was hell. Maybe he and his enemy would be locked together in combat until the end of days.</p>
<p>The moment he chose to drop his sword and give up the fight was the moment of truth. He put his fate in God's hands. He had died so many times in the night, what was one more death if it meant ascent into the Kingdom of Heaven? As he lie on the ground waiting for the solider to slit his throat, imagine his shock at being met with compassion instead. That's when knew the whole bloody affair was over for him. If this warrior would offer him mercy on the plains of battle, what cause did he have to respond with violence? To this man or any of his brothers? What honor was there in that?</p>
<p>Perhaps the next time death came for him, he would be forgiven for his sins.</p>
<p>"Bethlehem."</p>
<p>"Huh?" Nicolò looks up, yanked from his thoughts.</p>
<p>The soldier points ahead to a small settlement. "Bethlehem."</p>
<p>Nicolò's eyes widen, and he gasps in astonishment. Bethlehem. The birthplace of Christ himself. But they don't ride toward the village. Instead they veer toward the foothills and stop outside a small farm. There's a man out front loading food onto a cart, probably to take to market, and the soldier speaks rapidly to him in Arabic. A short time later, the farmer disappears inside his dwelling. The soldier dismounts and offers a hand to help Nicolò down.</p>
<p>They're offered food and water. While they rest, the soldier and farmer speak in somber tones to one another. Nicolò catches the odd word. "Franks," "Antioch," "Allah." The farmer seems frightened, and the soldier looks melancholy. They know the Christian forces will be moving into Bethlehem in a matter of days if not hours.</p>
<p>When they finish eating, the soldier expresses interest in one of the farmer's horses tethered nearby. To Nicolò's shock, he turns to him and starts speaking in a language he recognizes from merchants in Genoa. Words cobbled together from his own native tongue, Latin, Arabic, Greek, and all the other languages of the Mediterranean. With the soldier acting as translator, they work out a trade. Nicolò's mail and a few pieces of the soldier's armor for the horse.</p>
<p>Having secured the extra horse, the two of them agree to ride further into the foothills to make camp for the night. Just before they prepare to leave, the soldier points to his chest and says, "Yusuf."</p>
<p>He mimics the gesture. "Nicolò."</p>
<p>Yusuf nods curtly, they turn off the road, and ride into the hills.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>To Nicolò's great relief, they make early camp. Under an uneasy silence, they secure the horses and settle in. Yusuf pulls out a whetstone from the pack the farmer gave him and begins to sharpen his scimitar. Nicolò casts a wary glance at him. He's met with an identical one in return.</p>
<p>"Afraid I'll kill you?" Yusuf asks. He looks amused. He continues to sharpen the blade. <em>Shink. Shink. Shink.</em></p>
<p>"You seem to have trouble making it stick."</p>
<p>"Practices makes perfect." <em>Shink. Shink.</em></p>
<p>Nicolò glares at him.</p>
<p>"Do you think it's a blessing or a curse?" Yusuf asks. "Our immunity from death, I mean."</p>
<p>"Judging by my company, definitely a curse." Yusuf laughs. It surprises Nicolò so much that he does too.</p>
<p>Seemingly out of curiosity, Yusuf makes cut into the palm of hand. It's deep, and the blood wells up and drips onto the grass before quickly stopping. Yusuf wipes the blood away and shows Nicolò his palm. It's unmarked. A miracle some might say. But when he looks into Yusuf's eyes, he sees fear. He knows his expression is the same because he can feel the dread leech the warmth from him.</p>
<p>He doesn't bother trying the trick on himself. He already knows what will happen.</p>
<p>"I dreamed of you," Yusuf says. <em>Shink. Shink.</em></p>
<p>That gets Nicolò's attention. "I dreamed of you too. I dreamed of you laughing. And singing. And then I dreamed of you killing me." He's not sure which of those visions were real and which were creations of his own mind.</p>
<p>"I never dreamed of you killing me, but I saw you marching through the desert. You and all those half-starved Franks."</p>
<p>"I thought it would be different," Nicolò says staring at the ground.</p>
<p>"You thought invading someone else's land and taking their cities by force would be what? A holiday?"</p>
<p>"It was supposed to be a pilgrimage."</p>
<p>"Remind me never to go on a pilgrimage with you." <em>Shink. Shink.</em></p>
<p>"I'm sorry about your city."</p>
<p>Yusuf stops his sharpening. The sudden silence is deafening. When he speaks again, there isn't a trace of good humor left in his voice. "First of all, it's not my city. I came here to defend it against whatever nonsense inspired every backwater country priest your side of the Mediterranean to leap onto a horse and come here. Second—" And before he can blink, Yusuf is crouched over him, the tip of his blade poised just beneath his chin.  "—you're <em>sorry?</em> What exactly are you sorry for? The thousands of men, women, and children in Jerusalem alone who have lost their lives to this madness? Are you sorry for the atrocities that happened in Antioch mere weeks ago? Tell me, Nicolò, how many innocents did you slaughter? Did you enjoy it? Did you feel righteous? Did you—"</p>
<p>Yusuf lets out a cry because Nicolò has just buried a dagger between his ribs. He tries to roll away, but he feels the scimitar break through his flesh and warmth stream down his neck. He can't catch his breath. Maybe this time will be the last time. Maybe...maybe... Then all is darkness.</p>
<p>He wakes with a gasp.</p>
<p>Yusuf is sitting with the whetstone again as though nothing had happened. Except Nicolò spies a hole in his tunic where his dagger pierced him.</p>
<p>Yusuf spares him the briefest of glances. With derision dripping from his voice, he says, "<em>Sorry</em>."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Things Fall Apart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yusuf meets someone from his past. Nicolò tries to make a connection.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What good faith had built up between Yusuf and Nicolò outside of Jerusalem quickly vanishes. After Yusuf's outburst, Nicolò disappears somewhere deep inside of himself. And Yusuf — he nurses his grief and fury, unable to offer anything resembling a real apology.</p>
<p>They part ways when they reach Cairo, Nicolò heading north to the Italian peninsula and Yusuf returning to his family. He will keep what happened to him a secret. He will delay marriage proposals and avoid complicated personal entanglements. He will carry on his father's business when he becomes too old to work and watch as his parents pass away and his brothers and sisters age without him. He will re-enlist with the caliphate's standing army, and, on a routine patrol, fail to return. He will disappear into the night and that will be the last his family will ever hear of Yusuf Ibrahim al-Kaysani.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Fifty-five years later</strong>
</p>
<p>"You traitorous fuck!"</p>
<p>The curse rings out from a narrow side street near the cafe Yusuf is supposed to meet his contact, an agent the Fatimids have been running in Jerusalem. It was his first meeting. The previous handler got killed in a skirmish a week ago, and Yusuf was selected to take over for him. Among those who knew of the agent's existence, he had quite a bit of fame. It's said that the information he supplied during the Siege Damascus in 1148 turned the tide in favor of the Muslim forces.</p>
<p>He peers down the side street to see three Franks surrounding someone that, with Yusuf's luck, is probably the man he's supposed to meet.</p>
<p>He's working himself up to go take care of the nasty business when he hears the unmistakable sound of drawn swords and the dull <em>thok thok</em> of blades ripping into flesh.</p>
<p>
  <em>Shit. </em>
</p>
<p>It's quick, and it's brutal. There's nothing he can do now that won't draw unnecessary attention to himself. He ducks out of the alley opening, blending in with a few merchants in the main street, and waits for the Franks to safely pass. When they disappear behind a bend, he dashes down the alley to check on the victim.</p>
<p>He's crumpled on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Dead. Agents always ran the risk. From what his superiors told him, this man had been running intel for nearly six years now. It's remarkable he lasted this long.</p>
<p>A groan emits from the body, startling Yusuf, followed by a long series of harsh syllables that are undeniably swears.</p>
<p>
  <em>No. It can't be. </em>
</p>
<p>He turns the body over and staring up at him is a pair of unforgettable green eyes that Yusuf hasn't seen in nearly six decades. "You've got to be kidding me."</p>
<p>"You're not Ahmad," Nicolò says in lightly-accented Arabic. But it's clear from the look on his face that he instantly recognizes Yusuf.</p>
<p>"Ahmad's dead. I'm his replacement." He holds his hand out and helps the agent — because of course <em>he's</em> the agent — to his feet.</p>
<p>"Fucking degenerates," Nicolò mutters, glancing in the direction the Franks disappeared in. "Been tailing me for days. Thought I lost them."</p>
<p>Nicolò looks just the same as he remembers and yet is utterly unrecognizable. He's dressed like a Byzantine merchant, speaking fluent Arabic, and looks like he wants to murder somebody — okay, that last part is pretty much as he remembers.</p>
<p>Nicolò dusts himself off and drapes his cloak over the macabre bloodstain down his front. He seems more annoyed about it than anything. He gestures to Yusuf. "Let's go inside."</p>
<p>They sit in a dimly lit corner away from the other patrons, Yusuf gawking at him like an idiot over their thick, fragrant Turkish coffees.</p>
<p>"You're working for the caliphate?" Yusuf asks with disbelief.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"But the forces in Jerusalem think you're working for them?"</p>
<p>"That <em>is</em> the definition of a double agent," Nicolò responds drolly.</p>
<p>Yusuf's too confused to be bothered. "<em>Why?”</em></p>
<p>For the briefest moment, Yusuf swears Nicolò looks almost wounded. An instant later his face is just as unreadable as it was before. "Probably for the same reason you're still here fighting and not whiling away the days sipping tea and reminiscing about the old times."</p>
<p>Yusuf frowns. Is Nicolò being intentionally obtuse or is he really still this naive? "This is my home. I have no choice but to fight for it."</p>
<p>"True." Then he adds, "The Church is still promising men that their sins will be forgiven if they choose to fight."</p>
<p>Yusuf takes a sip of his coffee. "So does the Pope still forgive you if you fight for the heathens or...?" Nicolò looks decidedly unamused. "Atonement. That's what you're after. Trying to stop all the young men who think shedding blood is penance for whatever sins weigh on them. Did you convert to Islam?"</p>
<p>"That wasn't a requirement."</p>
<p>"I know. I'm just asking."</p>
<p>"No. I didn't convert. You ask an awful lot of questions for someone in the business of secrets."</p>
<p>"I think I'm entitled to a few given the circumstances."</p>
<p>Nicolò leans over the table and levels his gaze at Yusuf. "Do you think it's coincidence that we found each other again? A Second Crusade begins, and here we are?"</p>
<p>Yusuf's not superstitious, but he answers immediately and with conviction. "No. I do not think it is a coincidence."</p>
<p>Nicolò lingers, and Yusuf finds himself unable to break away from the intensity of his stare. There's a desperation to it, like he's trying to communicate something that he can't shape into words.</p>
<p>Yusuf tried to understand him once before. Tried to comprehend what would drive someone to travel so far from his homeland to try to wrench away the homeland of another. And now he's similarly confounded as to what would make that same man abandon his home altogether for another land, another language, another people. Surely, forgiveness isn't all he is seeking.</p>
<p>Nicolò withdraws and his face changes. Amusement flickers in his eyes. "You haven't aged a day."</p>
<p>"I hate you."</p>
<p>Nicolò's faces breaks into a smile, and Yusuf swears their corner of the cafe is just a little brighter for it.</p>
<p>"Your cover's blown. You won't be able to return to Jerusalem."</p>
<p>"I know. I plan to stay here and fight. I was promised I could join a unit whenever the time came."</p>
<p>"The Crusader who fights for Allah."</p>
<p>"I'm just trying not to make the same mistakes twice."</p>
<p>"There is honor in that." Nicolò looks away like he's embarrassed. "I mean it. That's a rare thing to behold."</p>
<p>They sit in silence for several long moments. Finally, Nicolò, jaw set and voice even, says, "I believe we're supposed to fight this war together."</p>
<p>The presumptuousness of the statement is truly astonishing. "We may pray to the same God, but we have very different beliefs."</p>
<p>"Then what do you believe?"</p>
<p>"Some things in life simply repeat themselves. Like the cycle of the moon or the planting of the harvest."</p>
<p>"The planting of the harvest," he deadpans. "Two men from opposite sides of conflict meet each other in battle and find themselves unable to kill the other. Sixty years later they meet again. You said it yourself it wasn't a coincidence. We are so much more than some common <em>grain harvest."</em></p>
<p>"Look," Yusuf is trying to be gentle, "you have clearly gone on a remarkable journey. But while you've been musing on why God wouldn't let you die for your cause all those years ago, I've been trying to use this gift to do something, <em>anything</em>, to protect what I have left. Your people keep coming. I'm happy you finally saw through your Church's hypocrisy, but this conflict goes beyond Christian versus Muslim. Allahu Akbar, but this isn't a Holy War for me."</p>
<p>Nicolò is quiet, faint lines of disappointment around his mouth. Not for the first time today, Yusuf wonders what he's thinking. He doesn't ask. Instead, he finishes his coffee, and says, "Do you have something for me to deliver?"</p>
<p>Nicolò takes a small roll of parchment from his pocket and surreptitiously hands it off to Yusuf. "Planned routes. Staging areas. Attack configurations."</p>
<p>Yusuf nods. "I'll let my superiors know you wish to come over." Nicolò keeps casting furtive, uncertain glances at him, like he wants to say something but is too afraid to come out with it. "What is it?"</p>
<p>"It's good to see you again," he says softly.</p>
<p>Yusuf feels a deep welling of emotion within him. The anger and frustration still burns, but it's alongside a steady current of warmth and tenderness and connection. On some level, Nicolò is right. They are bound to each other in some cosmic sense neither of them can possibly comprehend. All these years, there was a part of Yusuf that found comfort in the knowledge that this other man was out there roaming the earth too. Someone like him.</p>
<p>"You've got to stop dying on me, Nico." They grin at each other, and Yusuf thinks that perhaps fighting by his side wouldn’t be so bad after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Anachronism alert! I used modern terms for the intelligence work Nicolò is involved in. While espionage certainly existed during the era, did they necessarily have a word for a double agent? Who knows. I felt the modern terms were the best way of getting the concept across.</p>
<p>Alternate chapter summaries: "Time is a flat circle" and "Nicolò dies AGAIN."</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Surely Some Revelation Is at Hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicolò proves himself. Yusuf decides to stop fighting fate.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Settle in folks. I'm gonna give you exactly what you want.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicolò sees the knight come charging through their lines and run Yusuf down. A fatal blow. Adrenaline courses through him as his vision locks onto his foe. As far as Nicolò is concerned, he's the only target on the field. He yanks a pike from a corpse and hurls it at him, knocking him from his saddle and throwing him hard to the ground. The knight scrambles for cover, but Nicolò is marching on him with singular aim. He raises his sword and ends him before he has time to register why a man wielding a longsword but dressed as an Arab would be the one to deliver him into Death's hands.</p><p>The lines move, their flank beginning to encircle the Frankish forces. But Yusuf is still on the ground, unmoving. Nicolò kneels over him and gives him a rough shake. "Yusuf. <em>Yusuf</em>."</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>~*~</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Finding Yusuf in Cairo had been a revelation.</p><p>His return to Genoa after the Siege of Jerusalem was a failure, primarily because everyone was so proud of him. He'd recruited dozens of young men to follow him into the East, never mind that most of them never came back. He tried telling his family, the other priests, everyone he could speak to, what had happened over there — how the people they were fighting included civilians, how there was no real threat to Christians or pilgrims in the Holy Land — but his truth was drowned out by lies from the bishops. And what they chose not to lie about — the bloodshed, the vileness of it all, which they regarded as just and right — it made him ashamed. He dreamed almost nightly of Yusuf, grief and betrayal etched onto his face, blade pressed against Nicolò's throat. His face would transform into the countless soldiers he'd killed. Even during daylight hours, he was haunted by visions of men and women lying dead in the street, flies buzzing over their corpses.</p><p>He left Genoa shortly after without so much as a farewell. Got on a ship to Constantinople and that was that. He needed to make this right somehow. Maybe then the dreams would stop. Maybe then he would be free to die.</p><p>He spent years wrestling with doubts, but by the time he was installed in Jerusalem as an agent for the caliphate in Egypt, his mind was quiet and his heart full of resolve. When the so-called Second Crusade devolved into a blistering defeat for the invading forces, he rejoiced. And when Yusuf al-Kaysani was the one to welcome him back to life in Cairo, he knew it was a sign from God that he was on the right path.</p><p>Yusuf...needed some convincing. Although he deserves credit for taking a genuine interest in what Nicolò had done and seen over the sixty years since they were last together. Each story earned him a bit more trust, and Yusuf asked endless questions. About his faith; about Genoa and his family; about how it felt to leave (the hardest thing he's ever done); about whether he missed it (terribly). He learned about Yusuf's life. which, though defined by conflict, was also rich with poetry and art and philosophy. His proficiency in battle was equal only to the skill he possessed for the written word and discerning eye for beauty. No one he knew back home was half as well educated or as dedicated to understanding the world as Yusuf was.</p><p>Before long they developed an easy rapport — a rapport that quickly blossomed into friendship.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>~*~</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>"Yusuf, wake up. We're not done yet." Nicolò feels panic rip through him. He closes his eyes and begins to pray, "Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name," <em>Don't leave me —</em></p><p>Yusuf gasps back to life, and Nicolò lets out long exhale and murmurs a prayer of thanks.</p><p>"Did I miss it? Is it over?" Of course Yusuf's worried about missing out on the fight.</p><p>"The Franks fell for the feigned retreat."</p><p>"Again?"</p><p>"Honestly, it's getting to be embarrassing." He looks at Yusuf and almost laughs, he's so relieved. "You sure took your time coming around. If you get up, we can go finish them off."</p><p>"What happened to the asshole who ran me down?"</p><p>"What do you think happened to him?" Nicolò hands him his scimitar with a knowing smirk, which Yusuf returns with a nod, and they catch up with the rest of their unit.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>~*~</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Their battalion makes camp on the plains near the Nile. The night air is cool and fragrant and humming with the sound of cicadas. The two of them are passing the evening as they usually do, lounging by a small fire. Yusuf scribbles something, probably lines of poetry, which he sometimes shared with Nicolò. Without looking up from his writing, he says, "If you keeping going on like that, you're liable to stare a hole right through me."</p><p>Had he been staring? He supposes so. He was remembering the battle from earlier in the day. Visions of Yusuf being cut down looped over and over in his mind in an attempt to pick the moment apart. Yusuf was better at close-quarters fighting, but Nicolò had spotted the knight coming at a distance. Had he been in front, he could have given him cover.</p><p>He tells Yusuf this and Yusuf just smiles fondly. "We'll try it next time." Anyone else might have told him <em>you worry too much</em>, but Yusuf seems to understand it's not what he needs to hear.</p><p>He glances over at the elegant script beneath Yusuf's hands. He learned to speak Arabic, but he never learned to read or write it. "What are you working on?'</p><p>"Oh, just something I've been trying to get on paper for a bit now."</p><p>"Tell me."</p><p>Yusuf seems to hesitate. Then he looks evenly at him, and, without looking down to read the words, recites:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>On the battle ground,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>between hearts and glances,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am slain </em>
</p><p>
  <em>without sin or guilt.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò doesn't say anything. On the surface, the words are about being met with violence by an enemy who believes he is acting justly. But the way Yusuf's eyes never leave his and the way he speaks the words with such quiet passion and intensity, Nicolò hears something else. A longing. Some aching truth bleeding out onto the page. His enemy knows him intimately. This death is desired and willingly surrendered to.</p><p>Nothing Nicolò could say would express a fraction of the tenderness and devotion that's grown in his heart for this man over the many months they've spent together. Though he must know. He's told him in every glance they've exchanged, every private smile, every embrace. <em>Lover</em> is a word that's often crossed his mind, though their affections have never crossed the bounds of friendship. He's not sure what one calls a man like Yusuf. Words have failed him every time he's tried to name it.</p><p>Nicolò gets up and crosses over to the other side of the fire where Yusuf is sitting. Wordlessly, he wraps an arm tight around Yusuf's shoulders and rests their heads together. When he was young, his friends told him of love. Of quickening hearts and giddiness and minds so filled with thoughts of their beloved that sleep was chased away. They did not speak of <em>this</em>. Of feeling renewed at their touch. Of finding peace in the rise and fall of their breath. Of returning home at the sound of their voice. He feels the brush of Yusuf's lips against his fingertips, and the gentleness of it feels like a whisper, a secret message meant only for him.</p><p>"I used to curse Allah for allowing these wars to continue," Yusuf confesses. "But if I were to spend the rest of my days fighting by your side, I would be content."</p><p>"One day we will know peace."</p><p>He can feeling Yusuf laugh softly. "What on earth will we do then?"</p><p>"I have a few ideas." The boldness of the statement shocks even himself.</p><p><em>"Do you</em> now, Nico? I'd love to hear them."</p><p>He glances at him, fighting back a grin, and is arrested by the beauty of the way Yusuf's eyes reflect the sparks from the fire. It's like looking into the heavens. He presses a kiss to his temple. "Write your poetry, <em>ya rouhi."</em></p><p>“Funny, another verse comes to mind. Would you like to hear it?”</p><p>Nicolò closes his eyes and hums in assent.</p><p>He can feel Yusuf shift slightly. The words are spoken low in his ear, only for him to hear:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Scrape me some honey from your hive, he said.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'll have mine from your tongue, I replied.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then he bristled and said to me, sullen, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And sin before the living God? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sins on me, I answered.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nicolò is impossibly still. His words come out breathlessly. “Where is the sin in that?”</p><p>The answer is his lips upon Nicolò's.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Both verses Yusuf recites are from real poets writing for Arabic-speaking audiences during the era. "On the battle ground" is from a poem by Ibn al-Fāriḍ and "Scrape me some honey" was written by Samuel ibn Naghrillah.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Widening Gyre</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In Baghdad, Yusuf and Nicolò enjoy a brief reprieve from war.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yusuf and Nicolò spend a decade learning to fight as one. Skilled soldiers in their own right, their specialty with the scimitar and longsword sometimes clashes. They solve this by spending months training with the other's weapon of choice, learning the proper techniques and strategies so as to better blend the two styles when they take to the field. They identify each other's strengths and compensate for their weaknesses. And their uncanny ability to keep tabs on the other in the chaos of battle becomes like a sixth sense. Other soldiers start to joke, who needs Assassins when they have Yusuf and Nicolò?</p><p>Off the battlefield, they are inseparable. In the privacy of their own quarters, they relish in the pleasure and intimacy they denied themselves for much of their lives. Yusuf memorizes the shape of Nicolò's body like he would a poem. Each hard pane of muscle is a verse. Each kiss, each caress of his fingertips, an ode. He learns the meter to make Nico sigh just so and whisper his name. And when Nico takes him, he finds ecstasy in surrender and peace in his arms. Nico is his safe harbor, his refuge, his oasis. His quiet resolve moors him. His sweetness inspires him. He folds him carefully into his heart like he is the most precious thing he has ever known. He is.</p><p>By the time the 1170s roll around, they both agree to a well-deserved break from the soldiering life. Yusuf suggests they go to Baghdad. Baghdad, the largest city in the world, is nothing short of a magical, mystical, magnificent place in Yusuf's mind, filled with libraries and scholars and wonders around every corner. Now that they finally have the means to go, he practically begs to take Nicolò. And after a week of rhapsodizing about it during every spare moment, Nicolò concedes.</p><p>The city doesn't disappoint. Their eyes are wide and mouths agape when they pass through the gates. Neither had seen such a sprawling metropolis before. Minarets dot the skyline for as far as the eye can see, and they hear a dozen different languages within the first hour of wandering the streets. They spend a week just visiting mosques and marveling at the vivid colors and intricate designs and massive domes that float weightlessly above them, reaching as high as Heaven itself.</p><p>They settle into apartments that overlook the Tigris. Nicolò insists upon it. He likes to listen to the gulls and watch the herons on the banks of the river. It reminds him of Genoa, he says.</p><p>Both attend madrassas. Yusuf is beside himself with how large the libraries are. He has access to texts from not only the Arab world, but also Persia, India, ancient Greece, and Rome. In all honesty, he gets a little emotional the first time he sees the works of Homer, Hesiod, and Aristotle lined up next to contemporaries like Ibn Rushd and Maimonides.</p><p>Nicolò, too, delights in the opportunity for a better education than he ever could have dreamed. He learns to read and write for the first time — Arabic, of course (there is no written version of his native language, and his memory of Ligurian is starting to fade anyway). And while he's at it, he picks up Greek, too, so that he can share in the stories Yusuf has enjoyed for so long. They've never been happier.</p><p>
  <strong>~*~</strong>
</p><p>It's late morning. Yusuf and Nicolò are stretched out across from one other at the large window in their rooms. The read quietly and nibble on candy-coated almonds and crystallized citrus — their latest culinary obsession since arriving in Baghdad. A cool breeze blows, a momentary relief to the warm rays of the sun against Yusuf's face. He lets his eyes fall shut and enjoys the heady fragrance of spices wafting from the market and the earthy smell of the riverbank down below. He feels Nicolò's fingertips brush against his ankle, and he opens his eyes to see him watching fondly.</p><p>Yusuf lays his book down. "I think we've found Paradise."</p><p>"We should have come sooner." He looks apologetic as though it were him keeping Yusuf near the front lines all those years and not a mutual decision.</p><p>"We're here now."</p><p>"We're here now," Nicolò echoes.</p><p>Yusuf regards him. After ten years, it sometimes feels as though he's barely scratched the surface. He discovers new things all the time. The crinkle in his brow when he's concentrating. The tic in his jaw when he's annoyed. The way he instinctively reaches for the hilt of his sword when waking from a nightmare. "Do you ever think back to when we met each other?" Yusuf asks.</p><p>"In Cairo?"</p><p>"No. Jerusalem."</p><p>A shadow passes over Nicolò's face, just for a moment. "I try not to. Why, do you have fond memories of being run through with my sword?"</p><p>"Not exactly." He doesn't disagree with the way he shies away from the subject. Those memories are among his most painful too. The thought of hurting Nicolò is anathema to him. He would sooner hurt himself. "I was remembering how furious I was with you. First, for not staying dead."</p><p>Nicolò groans, but there's humor in his eyes. "I swear, by the end of that long night it was sheer stubbornness motivating me more than anything else."</p><p>"You? Stubborn?" He grins. "Can you imagine how I felt when I realized that of all the people in the world to share this gift with, it was some idiot Frank?"</p><p>Nicolò snorts and flicks an almond at him. "Hey. This idiot <em>Genoan</em> is literate now."</p><p>"And I'm so proud of you." He means it sincerely.</p><p>Nicolò's expressions changes to something more contemplative, one Yusuf recognizes as the way he looks when he's in prayer. "You said gift. That what we are is a gift."</p><p>"Don't tell me you still think this is God's way of punishing you."</p><p>"I don't know what it is." He looks out the window, but Yusuf can see that his gaze is far away. "It still frightens me sometimes. I'm scared to die. I'm scared to go on living."</p><p>"Nico..." He reaches for his hand and squeezes it tight. They don't hide things from each other, but Nicolò is rarely so open about his doubts. His faith usually sustains them both. God knows the same fears have kept Yusuf lying awake at night often enough. "We will leave this earth when we finish what it is we're supposed to do. No sooner. No later. Inshallah." God wills it. "So many things in this world were impossible until I met you. That I am undying is not the gift. <em>You</em> are the gift." Nicolò looks at him. There are tears shining in his eyes. "Nico, my beautiful, Nico. Come here."</p><p>They make love. It's as slow and gentle as the rising sun, and when Nicolò's lying in his arms after, Yusuf wonders how it is possible that his heart is capable of holding all the love he feels for him. He speaks this thought aloud, and Nicolò says simply, "The impossible becomes possible when we are together."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Center Cannot Hold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>War catches up to Yusuf and Nicolò.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In Baghdad, they remember who they are.</p><p>Specifically, they remember what it's like to wake up without the dread of oncoming war. They don't worry about treaties, troop movements, or news of fallen comrades. They linger in the market, sampling a new spice or sweet or savory delicacy each day. Yusuf goes to mosque. Nicolò attends Mass. Sometimes they forgo both and simply sit in quiet meditation with each other. The construct new rituals and fall into new rhythms together. They let down guards neither realized they'd been holding up.</p><p>These days Yusuf is even quicker to smile, embrace him, share with him any stray thought that comes into his head. Half the time Nicolò can barely keep up, but he enjoys how animated he gets about philosophy or poetry or whatever manuscript he's gotten his hands on that week. He writes more too. It's become a bit of a joke for Yusuf to share obnoxiously bad metaphors about him.</p><p>"Your lips are like honey, sticky and sweet; like you ate the last slice of tart."</p><p>"It would have gone to waste."</p><p>"I was going to eat it."</p><p>"No, you weren't."</p><p>Mostly, Nicolò feels like he's living again rather than waiting for the next death.</p><p>One year turns into two years, turns into three, then four until nearly twenty years go by. They don't spend all of it in Baghdad. They explore all the wonders cities like Constantinople, Damascus, and Marrakesh have to offer. One year, Yusuf takes them to Tunis where his family lived before his father moved them to Cairo. He asked him if he wanted go to Genoa, but Nicolò just replied that he wouldn't be able to bear it. Yusuf seemed to sense that it wasn't a subject to push on and never asked again.</p><p>Then Salah ad-Din took Jerusalem and the pope declared a new Crusade.</p><p>They barely even discussed whether they would go back to fight. One day they were enjoying the sprawling baths in Baghdad, the next they were packing their things and going west.</p><p>They fought. They died. They fought some more. By the end of it, Jerusalem remained out of the hands of the Crusaders, and there was an agreement to allow Christian pilgrims to travel safely to the city. But there was a ticking clock on the peace. Sure enough, by 1202, Crusade number four began and only concluded, to Yusuf and Nicolò's absolute horror, with the Sack of Constantinople.</p><p>The years blurred after that. There was another attack on Cairo, which they helped to successfully defend against. Then calm. Though something seemed to have changed in the two of them. Nicolò was tired. No, <em>weary</em>. He felt like a ghost. Sometimes he found himself wondering if he'd died during one of those battles after all, died for the last time, and was wandering these streets and haunting these alleys out of habit. And Yusuf...Yusuf's smile started to fade. He stopped writing. Some spark within him dimmed, and Nicolò wasn't sure if it would ever come back. They were both approaching their two-hundredth year of life, and he found himself asking God more and more often, how much can a soul be expected to bear?</p><p>One afternoon in early 1258, Nicolò hears the news that Baghdad, their beautiful Paradise on earth, had been set under siege and eventually sacked by Mongol forces. Thousands dead. Claims of libraries being burned and mosques destroyed. All that knowledge and art so carefully preserved, just <em>gone</em>. He isn't sure what to believe and walks home in a daze. When he enters, he finds Yusuf tearing through their rooms. Their weapons and armor are laid out, and he's packing their bags. He looks up, and Nicolò doesn't recognize the naked fury in the expression.</p><p>"What are you doing?"</p><p>"You didn't hear?"</p><p>"I heard." At those two words, Yusuf aims all that fury squarely at him, and they proceed to have the biggest fight they've ever had.</p><p>Because, for the first time in all their years together, Nicolò thinks they shouldn't go. He knew it would catch up to them, he just didn't know when. Looking back, he thinks, perhaps this is all long overdue. The fallout of all the death and destruction they've borne witness to. All the hunger and disease they've seen. The violence they've been dealt out dealt out alike. They've both seen each with long, fixed stares. Have watched the other relive any number of horrors, knowing the only thing they can do hold on tight and wait for the shadows to pass. Nicolò thinks he could pick up the sword again, if he had to, but he can't put Yusuf through it. Not this time. At a certain point, they'll start to lose more than they gain, and they've been losing for a long time. All that's waiting for them east of Egypt is death.</p><p>They go round and round for what seems like hours, Nicolò trying to convince him that they should sit this one out for their own sanity, and Yusuf calling him a coward for even the suggestion.</p><p>Finally, Yusuf turns to him and cries, <em>"Why can't they let us have something without trying to take it away?</em>" Then he crumples to the floor, weeping like Nicolò's never seen him weep before.</p><p>He's immediately at his side. Yusuf tries to push him away, but Nicolò doesn't move. In the next instant he's clutching him, and Nicolò can feel himself weeping too. They've been in so much pain for so long, he's sure neither of them fully realized it until this moment. They left something of themselves behind in Baghdad, hoping the city would keep it safe for them until they returned. Maybe stashed in the corner of their favorite library; on the window seat in their sun-dappled apartments; tucked away in the bed they shared. And now it's gone.</p><p>They quiet down, breathing in unsteady breaths, foreheads tilted against the other's.</p><p>"You're not a coward, Nico."</p><p>"I know you didn't mean it."</p><p>"I need you to hear it anyway."  He sits up, and cups Nicolò's cheek. He looks like himself again. "You're the bravest man I've ever known."</p><p>"This brave man wants to run as far away from here as we can get."</p><p>"Then we'll go. We'll go wherever you want."</p><p>"But this is your home."</p><p>"<em>You're </em>my home. No, no — " He wipes a fresh tear from Nicolò's cheek. "Please don't start crying again. If you start then I'll start, and it will be a horrible mess." That makes him smile.</p><p>They can hear the evening call to prayer ring out through the streets. Nicolò presses a kiss to Yusuf's forehead and stands. While Yusuf prays, he quietly puts their things away. They won't be going anywhere — not yet at least. They'll have a proper conversation in the morning and decide how they want to put the pieces of their life back together.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. So various, so beautiful, so new</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yusuf and Nicolò attend Carnival. Palazzos are considered. Plans for the future are made.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yusuf is ankle-deep in a fountain proclaiming his love for Nicolò.</p><p>He's not sure how he wound up <em>in</em> the fountain — he vaguely recalls being swept up by a group of debauched <em>Carnevale</em>-goers. But once he was in, it seemed like a good enough place to be.</p><p>He's already expounded upon his lover's mesmerizing eyes, his gentle touch, his fierce love. The metaphors are not his best, but that's only because he's still learning the local language. Not that it seems to be a hindrance to his audience. His transition into bawdier verses sends up raucous whoops and hollers. He can't see Nicolò's face behind his mask, but his shoulders are quaking with laughter. And then he's in the fountain too, miming sweeping Yusuf off his feet and pressing them together, mask to mask. Everyone goes wild.</p><p>They climb out of the fountain. The drunken crowd is already chasing other distractions, and Nicolò takes his hand and pulls him down a narrow side street. They slip their masks off, both grinning like idiots, and then they’re kissing and kissing and —</p><p>"I think I love Venice," Yusuf says a little breathlessly.</p><p>"I thought you loved me." Nicolò is trying to pout and failing spectacularly. "In fact, you just told <em>several</em> people —" Yusuf interrupts him with another searing kiss. "<em>Mmm</em>...we should go home and get into dry clothes."</p><p>"Or we could go jump in the canal." Yusuf's only half serious, but Nicolò's eyes glint mischievously. He’ll call his bluff.</p><p>“The city’s half-crazed tonight. Who would notice? In fact," Nicolò adds with very convincing sincerity, "Someone could drunkenly stumble in. But we’d be right there to help.”</p><p>“It would irresponsible of us <em>not</em> to be there.”</p><p>And then they’re dashing off toward the water’s edge.</p><p>~*~</p><p>They arrived in Venice a month ago on a cool, drizzly morning. Even with a thick blanket of clouds in the sky, the marble that coated the extravagant palazzos along the Grand Canal gleamed a blinding white. Yusuf knew Venice was a wealthy city, but he didn't imagine it would boast about it so openly.</p><p>They weren’t in high spirits. Only a few weeks had passed since news of Baghdad’s fall, and they were still absorbing the shock of it. After several long conversations, it became clear that neither of them were in any state to go to war, but they couldn’t stay in place any longer either. So they packed their things and went to the city that was famous for its prosperity, peacefulness, and stability: Venice.</p><p>It was a foreign land to both of them — even Nicolò, who at this point had spent more years in Egypt than he ever did in the closet thing to Venice, his home port of Genoa. A different language, a different climate, a different culture. It was as clean of a start as they were likely to get. (Although, to their great annoyance, they would still occasionally stumble across priceless artifacts that originated from Constantinople, plunder from the Crusade that brought that great city to its knees.)</p><p>More practically, speaking Venice was a city built and run by merchants. If they were truly going to leave the wars behind, Yusuf would be able to make a damn fine living here. He wouldn't just buy and sell in the local markets the way he did in between stints in the forces. Here he'd have an opportunity to build something that could generate income for years. And if they continued on as they were, unaging and undying, they were going to need the money.</p><p>Yusuf knew it was the best decision they could have made, and he was beyond grateful that Nicolò chose to stick to his convictions. Otherwise they'd both be having a shit time of it right now trying to chase the Mongols east.</p><p>They found a modest house with a spectacular view of the sunset each evening. Yusuf set up a business exporting textiles to Alexandria. Nicolò found work as a sailmaker. They were Venetians now.</p><p>~*~</p><p>They're sopping wet and freezing by the time they make it back home from their rendezvous in the Grand Canal, but they have no regrets. They scramble to get a fire lit and dive under the covers, shivering and still laughing at their escapades. Yusuf hasn't felt this young in years.</p><p>In truth, they’re not young. Not anymore. The dawning realization that they might go on living for a very, <em>very</em> long time stirred up a whole host of new challenges that no doubt contributed to their growing unhappiness in Egypt. They're only just beginning to understand how to live like this. How to pick up and move on when they need to. How to hold onto the memories the mind wants to forget and learn to forget the things they must in order to stay sane. He often wonders how long they have. A hundred more years? Two hundred? Five hundred?</p><p><em>Five hundred years. </em>It seems unfathomable.</p><p>"Where are you, Yusuf?" Nicolò says to him softly, combing his fingers through his hair.</p><p>"The future."</p><p>"What's it like?"</p><p>"Distant."</p><p>"So is the past. You know next year marks a hundred years that we've been together?"</p><p>Yusuf does the math. Not a hundred years since they first met — they passed that milestone at the turn of the century — but a hundred years since their reunion in Cairo. A hundred years since they called each other ally, companion, confidante, lover. "We should celebrate. Maybe by then I'll have made enough to buy us one of those garish palazzos."</p><p>"The way this city works, you'll have enough by next <em>month</em>."</p><p>"Don't hold your breath. I could be a terrible businessman. Or you could spend it all on wine and dice."</p><p>"I won't get a chance. You'll try to buy the Horses of Saint Mark and send them back to Constantinople."</p><p>"Someone should. Venice stole them." Nicolò really should know better by now than to bring that up. Unless he's desperate to hear him rant and rave about it. Again.</p><p>"Be careful," Nicolò says with mock seriousness. "You'll start the next Crusade."</p><p>"I guarantee you I can fend off every merchant down at the Rialto barehanded.”</p><p>"Do me a favor and stick to exporting for a while. I'm warming to the idea of living in a palazzo."</p><p>Yusuf imagines floating down the canal in a gondola each morning, waving at Nicolò high on the balcony of their brand new palazzo. It makes him smile. He drops a kiss on Nicolò's bare shoulder and watches him in the flickering light of the fire, mesmerized by the way it dances across his skin and casts long shadows over his face. He feels transported back to a century ago. "Do you remember all those nights we spent together on the Nile? Serving outside of Cairo?"</p><p>"You read me poetry every night."</p><p>"It seemed like you could have used a little poetry in your life."</p><p>"I did. There were a lot of things I went without." He doesn't need to say any more. Yusuf knows well the story of Nicolò di Genova, knight with a bleeding heart who honed his empathy into a deadly weapon. How he turned that weapon on his original cause. Outwardly stoic, unshakable in any situation, and damn inscrutable — it's no wonder he made a good spy. Yusuf can remember thinking that the world should be so lucky to have someone in it as committed to good as Nicolò was. Because the price he paid was high. For most people, probably too high. In all the years they’ve been together, he’s not sure Nicolò’s spoken more than a few sentences about his home.</p><p>Yusuf thinks back to what it was like for him, those sixty-odd years between realizing he couldn’t die and finding Nicolò again. He spent so much of it <em>not</em> living. He sequestered so much of himself away that, in many ways, he was just as alone as Nicolò was.</p><p>He can still remember emerging from their first battle together against the Frankish forces, bloodied and exhausted and <em>alive</em>. It was exhilarating. But to have that man lay beside him at night and whisper about goodness and grace and all the things in this world worth fighting for? Let's just say Yusuf may have been the one reciting poetry, but his own heart never stood a <em>chance</em>.</p><p>They're both warm and dry now, and Nicolò's eyelids begin to droop. Yusuf's fingers trace, feather light, down the ridge of his spine. He is perfectly content in this moment to watch him fall asleep in his arms. "I want to spend the next hundred years with you."</p><p>Nicolò hums contentedly and tucks his head into Yusuf's chest. "Will we stay in Venice the whole time?" He asks it like their being together was never a question.</p><p>"We'll go east. Travel the Silk Road. I'd like to see Samarkand, but I think Genghis Khan made a mess of it."</p><p>"Give it time. What was it you said to me once? Everything comes back around. A cycle. Samarkand was prosperous before. It will be prosperous again." There he is. His beacon of hope during his long, dark nights.</p><p>He wraps his arms tightly around Nicolò, breathes him in. The years are not always kind to them, but they at least can be kind to each other.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nicolò must confront his past. An interlude in Amalfi. Something must be done about the Genoese pirates.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Are you joking?" Yusuf is standing on the wharf, hands on his hips, with a soulless, dead look in his eyes. The captain of one of his vessels just informed him that half the shipment to Alexandria was plundered by pirates en route. Not just any pirates. <em>Genoese </em>pirates. Nicolò is pretending to be very interested in the mizzenmast sails to keep from laughing.  Ah, Genoa. Still trying to out-Venice Venice. They always did have the biggest chip on their shoulder.</p>
<p>"Piracy has been an ongoing issue between Venice and Gen — " the captain starts.</p>
<p>"I'm well aware."</p>
<p> He can <em>feel </em>Yusuf's eyes boring into the back of his head as though he’s holding him personally responsible for this conflict.</p>
<p>"Sir," the captain says, "I know the full shipment wasn't delivered, but my men need their pay."</p>
<p>He hears Yusuf heave a sigh. "I'm still paying you, Antonio. Come back tomorrow. I'll have the coin and another shipment ready. Come on, <em>Nicolò</em>." Nicolò stays quiet. He knows what's coming. He can hear the intake of breath. <em>Three...two...one...</em></p>
<p>"You know, my father was dealing with the damn Genoese plundering his ships two hundred years ago in Tunis. Two hundred years ago! It's like I can't seem to get rid of the bastards." Nicolò gets a poke in the ribs and a wink from Yusuf. "What's that about, huh?"</p>
<p>Nicolò finally lets himself smile. "Must be fate."</p>
<p>Yusuf throws his head back and groans. "No more fate talk. Or I swear to God I'm putting you on the next ship so <em>you</em> can deal with the pirates."</p>
<p>Thunder rumbles in the distance, so they pick up their pace. Nicolò's suddenly struck by the strong scent of briny sea air and the sweet, pungent aroma of the oncoming storm. In that moment, Genoa comes flooding back to him. He's standing on the threshold of his childhood home watching the gulls circle the ships in the harbor, his mother calling for him to come inside. And then it's gone, and he's staring down at fat raindrops darkening the flagstones outside of his own home.</p>
<p>These flashbacks have become more frequent since coming to Venice. It's strange. He's lost nearly every word of his mother tongue by now, but he's still transported in an instant by the most commonplace things: the creaking of sails hoisted over rigging or the sight of storm clouds rolling over the Mediterranean. It was painful, at first, in the way nostalgia often is. Now he finds himself trying to hold onto the feelings, but they're always fleeting, like trying to cup water in your palms.</p>
<p>Yusuf is saying something to him. "What?"</p>
<p>"I said are you coming inside? You're getting soaked." Yusuf's just over the threshold casting a puzzled look at Nicolò, who is, indeed, standing in the middle of a downpour. He darts inside and hears Yusuf laugh softly. "You okay?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, fine, fine. Got distracted."</p>
<p>"I know, I'm quite beautiful," Yusuf says without missing a beat.</p>
<p>Nicolò gives him a very fond but very sardonic look. "You're quite <em>something</em>."</p>
<p>Yusuf tosses him a bolt of fabric, something leftover from a recent shipment, so he can towel off. "Tell me what really had you so distracted."</p>
<p>He shrugs. "Just an old memory. Genoa."</p>
<p>Yusuf fully does a double take. "Go on."</p>
<p>"Not much else to say."</p>
<p>"Was it a good memory? A bad memory?"</p>
<p>"It was just a memory." He regrets saying anything now. He wishes Yusuf would just drop it.</p>
<p>Instead Yusuf looks deeply frustrated. He actually rubs the bridge of his nose like he's in pain, which Nicolò thinks is just a tad excessive. "You always do this," he mutters.</p>
<p>"What does it matter? It was so long ago."</p>
<p>"Because you never talk about it. You can't blame me for being curious. You spent the first thirty years of your life in Genoa. It's part of who you are.</p>
<p>"It really wasn't all that exciting." It's a weak response, and he knows it. "I already told you the important parts."</p>
<p>"You told me biographical details. I don't know if you had a happy childhood or if you were close with your sister or if you thought your younger brother was spoiled. I know more about your faith than your family."</p>
<p>It's true. The last time he talked about Genoa at any length was when they were first getting to know each other. He didn't get very personal back then and, more often than not, their conversations drifted toward faith and philosophy not their childhoods. Over time, Yusuf would fill in the details of his own life — how his father, a Shi'a Muslim, moved from Tunis to Cairo after a series of escalating conflicts between local Shias and Sunnis. How his mother introduced him to poetry. How his aunts were downright militant about trying to get him married. Nicolò always liked hearing these stories, and there is some unfairness in him not sharing these parts of his life equally with Yusuf. And yet…</p>
<p>"Some things should just be left in the past," Nicolò says with finality.</p>
<p>"We both know the past doesn't work like that."</p>
<p>“This is the one thing I've asked not to talk about. Leave it be."</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"<em>No?"</em></p>
<p>"No. Not this time. What happened that was so bad that you can't tell me about it? Me!"</p>
<p>Nicolò gives him a cold stare. He’s spent so long keeping certain memories locked away inside of him that Yusuf’s minimal prodding threatens to unleash it all like a dam bursting. And he’s not ready for that. "I abandoned my family, Yusuf. Why would I ever want to talk about that?"</p>
<p>He waits for a rebuttal that never comes. He realizes it's the first time he's ever confessed to this feeling out loud.</p>
<p>Finally, Yusuf asks, "Did you believe I would think lesser of you?"</p>
<p>"No." Nicolò stares down at the floor, anger extinguished by old and deep-rooted feelings of guilt and shame, rightfully felt or not. After all, Yusuf had to leave his family too, and he doesn't judge him for it. They had their reasons to do it. Good reasons, one might argue. But it still doesn't make up for the fact that Nicolò wasn't there to take care of his parents when they got old. Or lessen the grief they and his brothers and sisters must have felt when he left and never returned. "I can barely breathe when I think about them, let alone speak of them."</p>
<p>Yusuf takes his hand, entwining their fingers together. "The reason we're here in Venice is because you saw I was in pain, and you did something to try to make it better. Will you let me do the same for you?"</p>
<p>"What are you proposing?"</p>
<p>"We go to Genoa. We find out what happened to your family."</p>
<p>Panic fills him. "If it's bad, I don't want to know."</p>
<p>"Believe me when I say that the not knowing is worse." He squeezes his hand. "Do this before it's too late. One day there won't be anything left of them at all. I know you. You'll regret it."</p>
<p>Yusuf's right. He doesn't want to carry this weight anymore. He doesn't want his memories of his family, who were kind and loving and good people, marred by feelings of failure. He was so happy to embrace Yusuf and his world. Disappearing into it was as much about doing what was right as it was about survival. In doing so, he chose to bury parts of himself. It was easier than wrestling with them in the light.</p>
<p>Yusuf takes his face in his hands. There’s a gentleness in his eyes that never fails to make Nicolò feel both unbearably vulnerable and singularly safe. “Your sorrow is so quiet. I wonder how much I missed because I didn’t know to look.”</p>
<p>Nicolò shakes his head just a little, trying to ease Yusuf’s concern, which just makes him sigh and smile ruefully, like he knew that was exactly what he was going to do.</p>
<p>“I’ll go to Genoa, but on one condition.”</p>
<p>“What’s that?”</p>
<p>There’s just a hint of playfulness in Nicolò’s expression. “Take me to Amalfi first.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Amalfi is lemons and towering limestone cliffs and the glittering sapphire jewel of the Mediterranean. It’s a cathedral that’s home to the relics of St. Andrew and Yusfuf throwing up hands up when they realize these too have been stolen from Constantinople after its sack.</p>
<p>It’s understanding that God isn’t in the dusty remains of a saint but in the simple goodness of others. The woman who saw them standing under the hot afternoon sun and offered them water. The priest who gave them a blessing for safe travel. It’s seeing God in the slope of Yusuf’s shoulders and hearing Him in the sound of his name on his lips. Surely he’s not the first person to have glimpsed divinity in the way his body moves against his lover’s. In how the physical boundaries between them seem to dissolve into each other’s pleasure. Can such a simple act of love also be sacred?</p>
<p>“Of course it is,” Yusuf will say to him to as though it’s plain for anyone to see, and Nicolò will be astonished, yet again, by the man he was blessed enough to find and share his life with.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nicolò closes his eyes against the salty spray. There's not a cloud in the sky, and the bright sun shines on his face. They’ve almost completed the last stretch of the journey from Amalfi to Genoa, and he’s been a bundle of nerves ever since they left port. But right now, he is enjoying this moment of serenity.</p>
<p>He feels someone near him. Yusuf. "How close are we?"</p>
<p>"Captain says we should arrive by tomorrow evening."</p>
<p>He hears an odd whistling sound from above, almost like a projectile, and it's followed by the distinctive sound of rending fabric. Then there's more of the whistling and a <em>whoosh</em> as the sail goes up in flames. Pieces of charred wood clatter to the deck. Flaming arrows.</p>
<p>"<em>PIRATES!"</em> the lookout yells.</p>
<p>He and Yusuf lean over the railing and see a galley swiftly gaining on them. He looks back up at the sail. The fire has mostly gone out, but the white cloth is blackened and ripped through with half a dozen tears. He can feel their speed decreasing. Their rowers won't be able to outrun the other ship's. He swears loudly.</p>
<p>"What are the odds they'll board peacefully?" Yusuf asks.</p>
<p>Nicolò kicks an arrow shaft. "Judging by their first attempt at diplomacy? I'd say low."</p>
<p>"Perhaps now would be a good time to get our weapons."</p>
<p>Nicolò isn't below deck long before he hears grappling hooks hit the boat. He needs to get back up <em>now</em>. He grabs their swords and bounds up the steps, but the second he emerges, he's hit with a bolt from a crossbow. Straight through the heart. Yusuf yells his name, but the sound fades, everything fades, and then he fades.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wakes to a sharp pain in his chest that makes him seize. The bolt is still sticking out of him. He hears raised voices, but he can't quite make out the words. It's Venetian, he thinks, but heavily accented. Genoese? Godforsaken Genoese pirates. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, he reaches up and yanks the bolt out. He swallows a hiss of pain and breathes out slowly as he feels his body stitch itself back together.</p>
<p>He glances toward the sound of the voices. Most of the crew is on their knees surrounded by armed privateers. There's a handful dead too.</p>
<p>"Don't kill him." The voice belongs to Yusuf. He's doubled over like he's been kneed in the stomach. Two men restrain him on either side. When he raises his head, there's blood on his face. "The ship is yours. I'll pay you whatever you want. Don't kill him." He's pleading for their captain, Antonio, who looks like he's moments away from having a sword put through his neck. Nicolò can see his and Yusuf's weapons on the deck just out of reach. But if he moves ever so slightly, he can find — <em>there</em>! His fingers wrap tightly around the hilt of the dagger he keeps tucked in his belt. He could throw it at the guard over Antonio, but it's risky. The guard's sword might slip, killing Antonio anyway. Or another guard could hurt him in a panic.</p>
<p>The privateer in charge considers Yusuf's plea, and signals for his man to lower his sword. "Start transferring the cargo. Take the merchant. We'll ransom him." Nicolò feels terror rip through him.</p>
<p>Yusuf's eyes lock on his. There's a palpable relief on his face when he realizes he's alive, but it's followed by alarm. "No!" he shouts, but it's not meant for the guards, it's meant for him. Because the thing is, Yusuf just realized Nicolò has zero intention of letting them cart him off <em>anywhere</em>.</p>
<p>Nicolò's on his feet and hurls the dagger at one of the men pulling Yusuf away. It finds its mark, and the guard goes down, allowing Yusuf to break the hold on him and twist out of the other guard's grip. By then, Nicolò's managed to throw everything into enough chaos that he can get his sword in hand and charge into the fray.</p>
<p>He hasn't picked up a sword in years, but every thrust, parry, and slice is pure muscle memory. Even the way he yanks a sword from a dead pirate to give to Yusuf, now in position at his back.</p>
<p>"What part of no didn't you understand?" Yusuf hisses.</p>
<p>"The part where you got kidnapped by pirates." Nicolò fends off a strike and shoves the swordsman hard toward Yusuf who follows through by tossing him overboard.</p>
<p>"You were supposed to pay the ransom!"</p>
<p>"We have one rule!" <em>Don't get captured</em>. Yusuf doesn't have a retort for that.</p>
<p>They make quick work of the rest of the pirate crew. When they successfully board the other galley, the captain surrenders. It's not without loss of life. Three of their men are dead and double that for the pirates. They muster what little energy they have left to bury them at sea, then the rowers set them back on course north. </p>
<p>Nicolò spends the rest of the evening in silent prayer. A prayer for thanks for keeping them together, a prayer for the families of the dead, and contemplation over the senseless violence both of them can't seem to escape.</p>
<p>Arms wrap around him gently from behind, and he feels the familiar scratch of beard and the soft press of lips on his neck.</p>
<p>"When you said you wanted me to handle the pirates all those weeks ago, I thought you were joking," Nicolò says.</p>
<p>He can feel the low rumble of Yusuf's laugh against him. "Nicolò di Genova: Terror of the Tyrrhenian Sea. He's ferocious in battle. Especially when he's too cheap to pay a ransom."</p>
<p>It's his turn to laugh, but it's accompanied with a light elbow jab to Yusuf's ribs. "You're not allowed to be mad at me for that."</p>
<p>"I'm not. I would have done the same thing."</p>
<p>He looks up at the sky scattered with stars, the same ones that have always looked down upon them in all the years he's been on this earth. Yusuf's arms around him bring him a comfort he didn't know he needed. Like an answer to a prayer. He knows Yusuf will stay out here all night with him if it’s what he wants, but he won’t ask that. They need sleep and the start of a new day. So they go below deck and doze next to the other, waiting for the sun to rise.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Author kills Nicky again. I feel like it should be it's own tag at this point.</p>
<p>Those Genoese-Venetian trade wars? They go on for a full century, Black Death be damned. Venice wins. I can't imagine Nicky would be too upset about it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Ah, love, let us be true</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yusuf meets Nicolò's family.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter delves into Nicky's backstory, which I've taken some liberties with. In my story, he was never a priest, so just know that going in. I guess it's technically canon-divergent, but it's such a minor change in my mind, that I'm not going to tag it as such.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>"This</em> is where you grew up?" They're staring up at a striking black-and-white striped palazzo so big it has its own piazza.</p><p>"It was smaller back then," Nicolò says sheepishly. Then he adds with just a hint of grouchiness, "You didn't exactly grow up in a tent."</p><p>"I was well off. I wasn't <em>this</em> well off. Who knew I'd been running around with a prince this whole time?" he teases. Sort of. The fact that his family was — and still is — one of the most prominent and powerful members of Genoese nobility — was a big detail for Nicolò to have conveniently left out.</p><p>"I was not a prince."</p><p>"Prince Nico."</p><p>"Are you done?" There's a ghost of a smile on Nicolò's face that replaced the apprehension that was there only a moment ago. So yes. He'll be done. For now.</p><p>Genoa isn't as ostentatious as Venice. Its streets are darker, facades plainer. Despite the bad auspices of their arrival, Yusuf still finds himself falling a little bit in love with its dim and winding streets that give way to a palm-lined squares. He cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of green mountains that arch gently above the crowded buildings. The bustling sandy streets of Cairo will always be home to him, but he sees Nicolò in Venice and Genoa and every city in between, and he knows one day he will call this land home too.</p><p>Their destination is the Santa Maria di Castello, an abbey run by Dominican friars, and one of the few places in the city that houses any kind of official records. If they're lucky, they'll be able to find the birth, death, and marriage records for the Adorno family, Nicolò's name before he abandoned it when he went east.</p><p>"I wanted to become a Dominican, you know."</p><p>"Oh? Are they the ones with the funny haircuts?"</p><p>Nicolò laughs. "A lot of orders do that. Yes, I would have had a funny haircut. More importantly, I wouldn't have been stuck inside a cloister. Dominicans spend time with their community, preach to them in their own language, know how to read and write." He smiles a little sadly. "It was an option for my younger brother but not for me."</p><p>"You were expected to carry on the family name."</p><p><em>"He who endures conquers.</em> Adorno family motto."</p><p>"Well, you certainly did that."</p><p>They arrive at the abbey, and Nicolò stops. "If it's all right, I think I'd like to do this part on my own."</p><p>"Of course. Come find me when you're ready."</p><p>Yusuf finds a quiet square where he can sit back and watch the locals and imagine what Nicolò sees when he looks at this place. On the few occasions he's returned home to the old parts of Cairo, or Tunis where his family is from, he's felt a sense of comfort. His heart sometimes aches at the memory of his sister's laugh or the soft crinkles around his father's eyes, or the feeling of his mother's hands clasping his own, but those things remind of him of who he is long after the physical markers of those places have vanished. He wants that for Nicolò, but he gets the sense that this visit brings neither wholeness nor joy for him. Maybe those emotions will never exists for him here.</p><p>"Yusuf Ibrahim al-Kaysani of Venice?" a stern voice calls out from across the piazza. There are five armed guards marching toward him.</p><p>He raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"</p><p>"You presence is requested with the consul. Your ship has been seized and its captain arrested under charges of piracy."</p><p>Yusuf blinks at them and laughs just a little, mostly out of confusion. "Gentleman, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding." The guards flanking the one who spoke place their hands on the hilts of their swords. "Okay, you don't need to pull those out. I'll come quietly."</p><p>He's escorted unceremoniously back the way Nicolò and he came and brought into the very the black-and-white palazzo Nicolò said was his family's home.</p><p>"Who are you taking me to see exactly?"</p><p>"Consul Raffaele Adorno."</p><p>Yusuf nearly chokes. <em>Adorno. </em>One of Nicolò's family.</p><p>Raffaele Adorno is seated in a lush private garden. He's lean, all sharp angles, and dark brows make his distinctive blue-green eyes all the more piercing when they look in Yusuf's direction. They're the same eyes Yusuf is used to seeing on Nicolò.</p><p>"Now then," Adorno starts, "this little trouble we have..." He nods for the guards to leave and gestures for Yusuf to join him. Before he continues, he offers him a goblet. "Wine? It's from my family's vineyards in the north." Yusuf accepts. Everything about this feels surreal.</p><p>"My men tell me they were attacked on the seas." He does not sound angry. He does not sound emotional. He does not sound too concerned about it at all, in fact. Yusuf is immediately wary.</p><p>"Sir, I am a merchant. I can assure you that neither I nor any captain I employ would ever attack another vessel unprompted."</p><p>"<em>Unprompted," </em>Adorno repeats. "You claim my men attacked you first?" Before Yusuf can respond, he goes on, "Most merchants in that situation would surrender."</p><p>"It's not my first run-in with pirates."</p><p>"I do not employ pirates."</p><p>"Your <em>privateers, </em>then."</p><p>Adorno narrows his eyes. "<em>I</em> can assure <em>you</em> that my men were acting in accordance with Genoese law, and," Yusuf opens his mouth to refute him, but Adorno cuts him off, "now six of them are dead. You're lucky I didn't haul you and your entire crew in for murder."</p><p>"And what, start a war with Venice?" Yusuf snaps. "It's perfectly clear to me what happened. Your privateers were reckless, and now you have to clean up their mess."</p><p>Adorno stares at him, a cold calculating look he's seen Nicolò wear on dozens of occasions. It's a dangerous look. "I'm sure we can find a mutually beneficial outcome to this."</p><p>Yusuf wants to throw the wine in his face, but he's in no position to. He's on foreign soil with no ship and no leverage. So he grits his teeth and asks, "What are you offering?"</p><p> </p><p>~*~</p><p> </p><p>"What happened to you?" </p><p>Yusuf's in the square outside the Dominican abbey, arms folded and scowling at what is otherwise a breathtaking sunset. He glances up at Nicolò. "I just got swindled by you family, that's what."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"They arrested Antonio."</p><p>
  <em>"What!?"</em>
</p><p>"Sit down. It's sorted." Nicolò does not sit down. He looks around the square as though he's trying to find someone to physically fight. Yusuf ignores him and explains, "I was brought in to negotiate with one of the consuls. An Adorno. You have a very nice home, by the way. The gardens are really something. Whoever's making the wine knows what they're doing too." Is he bitter? He's a little bitter. "Anyway, he had the gall to accuse <em>us</em> of acting outside the law. Claimed we attacked his men."</p><p>"That's patently — "</p><p>"Untrue. I know. <em>He </em>knows. But what was I supposed to do? Let him hang Antonio for piracy?" His blood boils just thinking about it. "Anyway, he took a good portion of my cargo. I got Antonio back along with my ship. I'm half tempted to march straight to the Doge's palace when we get back to Venice and tell him to send in the fleet. But I'm sure that's impulsive."</p><p>"Sounds like a fine idea to me." Nicolò says coldly. He slumps down beside Yusuf. "I can't wait to leave this city."</p><p>That doesn't sound promising. "What did you find out?"</p><p>"Besides the fact that my family's a bunch of dishonest, thieving, power-hungry patricians?"</p><p>"That seems a bit harsh." As though he did not just get through lambasting a member of said family. Nicolò looks at him like he's having the same thought.</p><p>"Last year they attacked the fort," Nicolò says. "As in the fort protecting this city. They managed to run another noble family out that they'd been feuding with. The pope had to intervene to restore peace, but everyone expects the civil war to continue. The exiled family is currently amassing an army, and they don't expect the Adornos to take to it kindly."</p><p>"Never mind. You were right. Power-hungry bastards."</p><p>Nicolò heaves a bone-deep sigh, which prompts Yusuf to reach an arm around him. "Was it a mistake coming here?" he asks.</p><p>"No. I just —" Nicolò's jaw clenches. He always chooses his words carefully, but often Yusuf understands more by just watching him. Right now, Nicolò isn't exuding guilt or grief. The tension in his shoulders is pure, righteous unadulterated anger. "I don't know what I expected. Money and power just begets more money and more power. I don't know why I thought any of them would have chosen a different path."</p><p>"Because you did." He sometimes thinks Nicolò forgets just how remarkable the choices he made were. Or how few would have done the same.</p><p>Nicolò gives him a long look and his anger gives way to something more melancholy. "I'm listed as having died in the First Crusade. It's unclear if it was something that got misremembered or if my family considered me dead to them the minute I came back and started on about how the war was wrong."</p><p>"Would your family have done something like that?"</p><p>"I'd like to think no, but," he squints into the sunset, "they would have had to save face in order to get my brother married. Privately, it's hard telling what they thought."</p><p>He's always known Nicolò to possess an uncanny understanding of power politics: influence and intrigue; gossip and subterfuge. He assumed it was because of his work as a spy in the Crusader States. He achieved a high enough position that he was rubbing shoulders with knights and bishops, not just common soldiers. But that's not where he learned it after all. Nicolò — Nicolò Adorno di Genova — was born into nobility and raised to become a powerbroker of one of the most powerful maritime republics in the known world. Had his life gone the way his parents assumed it would, he would have owned a vast expanses of land, wielded absolute power over hundreds of serfs, dined with popes, and raised children who would do the same after him. He would have become a naval commander, perhaps, then, later, a politician. He would have sent men to the Crusades and reaped the rewards of it.</p><p>"Stop fighting this place, Nico."</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"I can see it. You chafe against every inch of his city. You think you're its opposite, but you're not. Don't mistake me. You do not share its values. But that conviction, that single-minded, dispassionate thing inside you that drove you to pursue what you knew to be right even if it meant turning your back on everyone and everything you'd ever known? Where do you think you got that from? Your family and this city gave that to you. Hell, it's a damn good thing your moral compass points in the direction it does because if you'd come here to stay, you would have eaten your competition <em>alive.</em> Nico, don't — " Nicolò looks distressed. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Can't you see it's one of the reasons why I love you? What use is your goodness without strength? Bury your family, but do not bury this place. It has forged you into steel."</p><p>Nicolò looks at him with something like wonder. Yusuf presses a kiss to a his temple, muttering, "By the way, we're going to have a long talk later about what other things you haven't told me that might be good to know. It's not that I can't appreciate a little mystery, but, ya ruhi, some of this would have been, how should I put it? Informative?"</p><p>Nicolò smiles and nods. "Why later?"</p><p>"Because," he says directing Nicolò's gaze toward the buildings below. "I've been watching the warehouses, and not only did I figure out where they moved my cargo, I also figured out the guards' shifts."</p><p> </p><p>~*~</p><p> </p><p>At midnight, from the galley, they watch Raffaele Adorno's warehouses go up in flames. There is grim satisfaction on Nicolò's face, and Yusuf can feel the tension leave him as their oarsmen slice silently through the water, carrying them back to Venice.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The black-and-white stripes on building facades are actually characteristic of a lot of architecture in Genoa: https://www.zonzofox.com/genova/what-to-see/get-inspired/featured-guide/black-white-stripes-architecture</p><p>Yes, there actually was a very powerful family named Adorno in Genoa at the time, although Nicky's family and the real Adorno family are not meant to be one and the same: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adorno_family</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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